The Epiphanes Letter

 

photo from Pexels by artist Maria Tyutina

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poem by Joshua Brown

When I wrote to you

O Epiphanes,

I wrote not of clut,

The wild west,

Or soulless smut.

When I sent to you

The gift giv'n 

I sent not the stone,

The isop pen,

Or broken wishbone

Luck to you Epiphanes!

Lucy blows lovely kisses.

This I write to you,

O congregation:

These parables spoke by you

The unholy, disallowed generation

Parroted in power, to children

Their ears open to, not you

But your propaganda soaked

Kerosene rags,

Ready to be lit and cast

Into the hollowed shell of 

David's United Kingdom

An arsonic bellow

Preserved by heaven's psyop

Against your demonic impulse

The deep ocean of your

Hard-hearted violence

Chosen in adulthood

Against the child

Against your child

Against you, child

Against the Holy Child

Will be crushed by the glorious

Indefatigable will

Of the Angel

Sent unto you now

Across time

But in this moment

For if ye

Though ministers

And angels

And kings

And prophets

And soothesayers

And teachers

And storytellers

And poets

And all manner of fathers

Repent not

Of your demonic repentance

And return not

To betray the tyrants

That betrayed you,

Then will heaven itself

Cast its spell upon you

And turn you from stone,

This pillar of salt,

Which God allowed,

As Merciful and Holy

Blessed be His Name,

Into a mortal man

Forgotten by the angels

Forgotten by the old man, Time

Forgotten by the graveyard

Forgotten by the graveyard worms

Forgotten by the children

Who use your melodic syntax

To form accelerationist sentences

The BITFD spirits, ghosts roaming

Casting their Molotov cocktails

Over your forgotten body.

O congregation!

O Epiphanes!

O congregation!

O Epiphanes!

Scrawl quickly now

Your own confession.

A complaint bring not.

For God will not hear your murmuring.

His ears are shut.

For there is no God,

Only metaphors for the Divine Truth

Found by men of Virtue

For God cannot be seen by animals

Nor by men.

For God is alive and we have resurrected Him.

Hear O congregation!

Hear O Epiphanes!

Hear O Blessed Theotokos!

Call not on I AM for unholy pleasures.

Call on the Still Small Voice IN mean:

Patience

Bravery

Kindness

Purity

Affection

Cleanliness

Organization

Fervor

Peace

Strength

No longer dwell among the superstitious

Who hear these words, repeat them ill

And seize power against The Child

And crucify, betray, judge, condemn

The eggs that they themselves fertilized

Upon the marriage bed in free will

Petty tyrants that murmur against

Tyranny.

#prose #poetry #freeverse #freewill #choice #goodandevil #philosophy #christianity #superstition 

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Thanks for reading "The Epiphanes Letter" which was written in Denver, Colorado, United States, North America on January 21, 2023 on RTD trains E and A. Check out my last prose/poetry entitled "Creche Set Collectionism" which is a reflection on modern Walmartian Christianity as I personally have experienced it in America.

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